The Inheritance of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody
by charleygirl
Summary: Holmes is rescued from boredom by a summons from his cousin Cressida. The assignment, however, is not quite what he expected, and Watson discovers just how eccentric the Holmes family can be...COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** _Holmes's cousin Cressida was first mentioned in my fic_ The Puzzle Box_, and appears in Chapter 11 of_ Jottings from a Doctor's Journal_._

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**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER ONE**

"I have received a summons, Watson," Sherlock Holmes announced one morning in the spring of 1899. We were partaking of one of Mrs Hudson's excellent breakfasts, I myself having just finished a very fine dish of kedgeree, while Holmes had moved on to coffee and perusal of the first post of the day. He held out a yellow telegram form with the sugar tongs.

"From your brother?" I asked, taking the paper. I could think of no one other than Mycroft Holmes who would dare to send such an order to my friend.

"I could almost wish that the message did indeed come from Mycroft, for it would have very been very much the lesser of two evils. Sadly, however, it does not. It is my cousin Cressida who demands my presence in Harrow this afternoon." Holmes did not look at all enamoured of this proposed family gathering – in fact, I am sure I saw his lip curl in contempt at the mention of his cousin. Having briefly met the lady in question myself a few months earlier, I could understand why. Both were strong, commanding personalities, and there was certainly no love lost between them, despite that fact that they had once been engaged (unwillingly, as Holmes had been quick to assure me).

I examined the telegram for myself. The wording was curt, and gave no clues as to the reason for the summons:

SHERLOCK, EXPECT YOU AT THREE O'CLOCK TODAY. IMPORTANT. NO EXCUSES, CRESSIDA.

"It tells us nothing," I observed. "Will you go?"

Holmes reached for his pipe. "I admit that I am very tempted to refuse, but you know how bored I have been these last two weeks, Watson. I have come to the point where even the prospect of a confrontation with cousin Cressida is preferable to sitting here waiting for the doorbell to ring."

I carefully put the telegram to one side and busied myself pouring a cup of coffee while he packed and lit the old briar. When he had it drawing to his satisfaction he said,

"I suppose you wish to properly meet Mrs Cunningham." I must have looked blank, for he rolled his eyes and elaborated, "My delightful cousin."

"Oh, of course. Well, if I will not be in the way I would be more than happy to accompany you this afternoon," I said.

Holmes stood before the fireplace, puffing on his pipe, for some moments before he nodded. He glanced at me with a swift smile. "And so you shall. I have a little business to attend to this morning, but I will meet you at Marylebone at two to catch the quarter-past train out to Harrow. Then we shall see what Cressida really wants."

***

And so we did.

Holmes was punctual, arriving at the station at two o'clock precisely. He would not elaborate as to where he had been, but it was evidently somewhere in town and entirely respectable for his dress and appearance were as neat as a new pin. Far from being irritable at the prospect of a meeting with his cousin – a rather formidable lady, I recalled – he seemed positively cheerful, a circumstance I could only put down to the possibility of a case being dangled before him like a carrot to a donkey.

"Have you ever visited your cousin's home?" I enquired as the train pulled into the station at Harrow-on-the-Hill.

"Never, and I have also not been near her for long enough since she and Charles returned from Aldershot to discover exactly where she lives, hence my visit to Mycroft before joining you. He was less than amused to be disturbed at luncheon, as you can imagine."

I could. The elder Holmes disliked disruptions to his routine intensely, especially at mealtimes. "And Mycroft knows her address?"

"Yes, though I had to promise to assist in some government business to make him give up the information. I will be up to my ears in state affairs for weeks." Holmes's sunny demeanour faltered for a moment, and he growled. "What do I care about the state of Siam?"

"Well, you were complaining of boredom this morning," I reminded him.

He snorted. "I can assure you that I am not yet _that_ bored, Watson! Had Cressida just wired her address it would have saved my making such a sacrifice, but it is not in her nature. She would always withhold information when we were children, purely to test my abilities."

"And you do not mind? Surely, a grown woman behaving in so childish a manner - "

Holmes just smiled slightly. "It is her intention to catch me out. She does not realise that she will never succeed. Ah! Here we are." He leapt up from his seat and led the way from the train.

An enquiry of the station porter furnished us with directions, and we set out on a pleasant stroll through the twisting, leafy lanes up the hill towards the famous church. The spire climbed into the blue sky, impassively surveying the town beneath. Eventually we reached a large modern house of red brick set back in its own modest grounds. The gate, when Holmes tried it, was open, and we proceeded through a pretty little garden shaded by a spreading chestnut tree, to the front door.

My friend rapped sharply upon the knocker, and a moment later the door was answered by a timid uniformed maid. She looked rather taken aback at the sight of the imposing figure of Holmes on the step, and asked in a querulous voice,

"Can I help you, sir?"

"We are here to see Mrs Cunningham," Holmes replied, handing her his card. "We have an appointment."

"If you'd care to wait in the hall, gentlemen, I'll inform the mistress of your arrival," The girl shut the door behind us and scurried off.

"She looks terrified," I whispered to Holmes when we were alone.

He shrugged. "You have seen Cressida, Watson – surely you can understand why?" he said, turning to look around the hall with his usual incisive gaze.

I recalled my own encounter with the rather…brusque person of Mrs Cunningham. That she had a temper had been quite evident from barely a few moments' acquaintance. I owned that I would not like to have her as an employer, and assumed that her somewhat superior attitude was a trait of the Holmes family that my friend had fortunately not inherited. Sharp and cold though he could sometimes be, Holmes would always treat servants with respect and occasional kindness. My impression that Cressida was something of a tartar grew.

As I glanced about me, a large portrait which hung above the fireplace drew my attention – an elderly woman, straight-backed and imposing, her bright blue eyes staring out from the canvas, looked down upon us with a disapproving frown. She bore more than a passing resemblance to Cressida, and I remarked upon the likeness to Holmes.

"Great-Aunt Sophronia," he replied. "She took to the black crepe after Uncle Tiberius died, even though they never agreed on anything in forty years of marriage. The poor man just keeled over and passed on without a warning, finally unable to stand the lash of her tongue a moment longer."

"Do any of your family actually like one another?" I asked, only half in jest.

"I believe my Aunt Adelphia once had quite a tolerable conversation with her son Wolfram," Holmes said quite seriously. "That was quite some time ago, however…"

I shook my head. This antipathy towards one's own flesh and blood was quite alien to me, but then my friend was a most unusual man. I could not expect him to have come from such solid, normal stock as I had done myself. No such family could ever have produced a Sherlock Holmes.

As we waited, I gradually became aware of being watched, and not by the portraits in the hall. I was about to mention the sensation to Holmes, when he lightly touched my arm and pointed upwards.

"Holmes - " I began, but he just put a finger to his lips.

I raised my head to see what had attracted his attention, and nearly jumped when I realised that two pairs of eyes were peering down at us through the banisters on the landing. Though I could make out little of their appearance, it would seem that two small children crouched there in the shadows, observing us.

"And what, pray, have you deduced from your observations?" Holmes asked loudly, his train of thought obviously having been running along similar lines to my own, but as always, at a faster rate.

After a pause, the voice of a young boy piped up, clear and confident, "That you must be our cousin Sherlock. Are you _really_ the famous detective Papa reads about in _The Strand_?"

My friend exchanged a glance with me, and one of his swift smiles touched his lips. "I am indeed," he replied, "and perhaps you would come down and explain your reasoning Master - ?"

"Ptolemy," came the immediate response, "and this is Xanthe." There was a rustle of clothing as the children scrambled to their feet, and then they were hurrying down the broad staircase, Ptolemy in the lead with his sister a few paces behind. They were polar opposites in appearance, Ptolemy so fair as to be almost white like his mother, in contrast to the glossy black locks of Xanthe. Both had the sharp features and even sharper gaze which characterised the Holmes family, even at such a tender age.

"Well, Master Ptolemy," Holmes said when the two had reached the foot of the stairs and stood before him, "Tell me how you know who I was."

"That's easy," Ptolemy replied. Though he could not have been more than nine years old, he showed no reticence or nervousness at being questioned by two complete strangers. He stood almost at ease, his hands folded in the small of his back, head held high. Xanthe was less forthcoming, preferring to hover shyly at his shoulder and peep at us through her curls. "Mama said you would be coming this afternoon, and you look enough like Mama for me to make the obvious connection. You don't look much like the pictures in _The Strand_ though - neither does Doctor Watson."

I was not surprised that the lad had also deduced my identity. Instead I found myself wondering whether Holmes had been anything like Ptolemy at the same age.

"That is quite deliberate," Holmes said smoothly in answer to the boy's remark. "My career would be over in an instant were the population of London able to recognise me so easily."

Ptolemy's face screwed up in a thoughtful frown for a moment before he nodded. "That makes sense."

"I would, however, be interested to know why your mother told you I would be coming when I did not confirm the appointment," Holmes continued.

"Oh, that's easy, too." When my friend looked confused, the child smiled and said, "Everyone always does what Mama tells them."

Holmes glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Well, then, you had better conduct us to her. I am interested to know exactly what it is she wants of me."

"She's in the garden," said Ptolemy cheerfully. "Xanthe, go and tell Mama that cousin Sherlock and Doctor Watson are here." His sister ran off at once, black curls streaming behind her, and vanished into the depths of the house. Ptolemy turned back to Holmes and said, "I know why you're here. You've come to solve Mama's mystery."

Holmes's right eyebrow raised to join its fellow. "Your mother has a mystery of her own?"

"Oh, yes," the boy said soberly. "She needs you to find Barnabus Aloysius. He's not been home for days, and Mrs Peabody is going mad with worry."

***

Before I could even begin to wonder about the identity of Mrs Peabody and her remarkably-named missing person, Ptolemy had shown us through the house to the conservatory. This room, with its large windows and greenery would have been delightfully lush and airy had it not been rendered uncomfortably hot on such a glorious afternoon. I was most grateful when we were permitted to emerge into the garden, where a cooling breeze stirred the leaves of the shrubbery plants which surrounded a small patio.

Here, in a wrought-iron garden chair, her pale face shaded from the sun's harmful rays by a wide-brimmed straw hat, sat Mrs Cressida Cunningham herself. She appeared, when she rose to greet us, no less self-contained and strong-willed than I recalled from our very brief encounter in the hallway at Baker Street. Her piercing pale blue eyes took our measure immediately, and she waved us both to seats, her thin mouth twitching in the roughest approximation of a smile.

"I knew you would come," she said, after sending the nervously hovering housemaid for tea, "If you were going to refuse I would have received an express telegram informing me that you had urgent business in Outer Mongolia."

"The notion did cross my mind," Holmes replied, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his chair. "However, cases are somewhat scarce at present, and I am therefore grateful for any intellectual stimulus which comes my way. I take it that it is a professional capacity in which you wish to consult me?"

Cressida nodded. "It is on behalf of my neighbour."

"Mrs Peabody?"

She looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know that? I mentioned nothing in my wire."

"Your son told us," I said, and earned myself a glare from Holmes.

"Of course." Cressida's hard face softened at the mention of her child, who had scampered off to play with his sister at the bottom of the garden. "He has been eager to meet you, Sherlock – you have become something of a hero to him since Charles started reading Doctor Watson's stories at bedtime."

"I am glad the lad enjoyed them, ma'am," I ventured, only to gain an unimpressed glance.

"Well, they are not to my taste, but such florid romanticism will do for children, I suppose," she replied, and I heard Holmes snigger. This time I glared at him.

He forced the smile from his face. "Watson's tales are extremely popular," he said, " so much so that _The Strand_ have requested another thirteen. It only remains to decide which of our many cases should be next put before the public."

I tried not to show my surprise, for that he had agreed to the publication was news to me. It had been over a month since I had mooted the idea, only to have him dismiss it out of hand. "Er…your children have unusual names," I remarked, thinking it time to change the subject. "Ptolemy I know, of course, but Xanthe?"

"Greek, meaning golden haired," said Holmes in amusement. "Rather ironic, under the circumstances."

Cressida shot him a freezing glare. "She was fair at her birth, as were you," she replied with a pointed look at his dark head.

Needled, he sat up, immediately businesslike. "Tell me why you summoned me out here, Cressida. I wish to have the facts."

"Very well. My neighbour has lost her cat."

There was silence for some moments. I waited, fully expecting a storm, and I was not disappointed. Holmes straightened, as though someone had run a ramrod up the back of his jacket, and said in a dangerous tone, "Her _cat_?"

"Yes. He has not been seen for five days now, and she is frantic with worry. She practically begged me to ask you to come up and look into the case." Cressida's tone suggested that had the lady not pleaded she would have done no such thing.

"I see." Holmes's face contracted in anger, and he stood, towering over Cressida and myself. "Watson, at what time is the next train to Marylebone? My time has been wasted in the most appalling fashion. A cat? _Ha_! I could really be quite insulted at being dragged all the way here on such a trivial errand."

Cressida stood, too. She was some inches shorter than Holmes, but still above the average height for a woman and the high heels on her shoes meant that she could almost look him in the eye. "_If_ you would allow me to elaborate, Sherlock, before you fly up into the boughs and bemoan the insult to your reputation, I will point out to you that this particular cat is very old and very fat and has not left the house in six years. It could not have gone missing of its own will, and so it must have been stolen!"

"Then may I suggest you try the nearest police station? They have far more experience at recovering lost pets than I," Holmes said tartly.

She folded her arms. "As a matter of fact, we informed the police on the first day. They made a search of the house but found nothing. Sherlock, an old lady is beside herself with worry because her companion has been taken from her. Have you no compassion?"

I watched as they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. It was stalemate, and at length Holmes resumed his seat with a martyred air.

"You surprise me, cousin," he said, "Aiding the helpless was never much in your style."

"We all change with age," said Cressida with a flick of a perfectly-arched brow. "I can see, however, that you are just as objectionable now as you were at the age of twelve."

I had to hide my smile behind my hand, for the expression upon Holmes's face was thunderous.

"I commit myself to nothing," he told his cousin, and she sighed, nodding. "Very well. Tell me the exact situation." He closed his eyes, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

Cressida's mouth twitched in irritation. "I _have_ told you. The cat is gone. Mrs Peabody heard no one enter the house, and no one was seen loitering outside. There is no cat flap, and no way for the animal to leave the house unaided. It is too overweight and infirm to even make the attempt. On Monday evening it was there, the next morning gone without a trace."

"There have been no visitors, no strangers to the house in the past few weeks?"

"None."

"The breed of cat owned by Mrs Peabody?"

"A long-haired Persian. I believe he is very valuable – she has spoken more than once of his worth," Cressida said. "Now, will you accept the case?"

There was a very long pause, during which Cressida's impatience became almost tangible and I felt most uncomfortable caught in the middle of a decades-long animosity. Holmes sat there, brows drawn together in a deep frown, for some time, before he eventually leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together.

"Very well," he said. "I suggest we go and speak to your Mrs Peabody immediately."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Many thanks to those who reviewed! I had great fun naming the Holmes clan... :)_

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**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER TWO**

As we stood to leave for Mrs Peabody's house, Ptolemy noticed our activity and came running up, waving a hand in the air.

"Mama!" he called, "Mama, before you go I need to tell cousin Sherlock about - "

"Cousin Sherlock does not need to hear about that now, Ptolemy," Cressida replied firmly, interrupting him. "Go and play with Xanthe – she has been very upset over Barnabus Aloysius's disappearance, and she needs you to look after her."

"But, Mama, you know that – Xanthe told you - "

She eyed him with a stern gaze. "_Now_, please, Ptolemy."

"Cousin Sherlock," Ptolemy tried, turning to my friend in appeal, "You really, really need to know this - "

"I think that we must comply with your mother's request, Master Cunningham," Holmes said, seeing that Cressida was rapidly becoming irked with her son. "We will talk later, if that if what you wish."

Reluctantly, Ptolemy nodded. "It is very important, don't forget," he insisted, but did not try to protest further. Instead he turned and made his way back to where his sister sat on a swing at the end of the garden. Words passed between them but I could not hear what was said from such a distance. Holmes watched the lad go with a thoughtful expression which made me wonder if he was in some way recalling his own childhood. Before we visited Cressida's home I could never imagine my friend as ever having been a child, but having met Ptolemy I could well picture him with the lad's forwardness and complete self-confidence in the presence of adults.

"You should be very proud of that boy," he told his cousin, as we followed her back through the house. "Such keen intelligence needs careful nurturing."

"And so we are aware, Sherlock, I assure you. He will start school in the winter term – there is little more that Miss Runciman can teach him," Cressida replied.

"And then?"

"And then it will be for him to decide, but at present he has ambitions to be a soldier like his father."

Holmes blanched, as far as it was possible for one of his natural pallor to do. "The _army_?" he repeated in a tone that would not have been out of place had Cressida suggested sending her son to the moon.

"The army is an honourable profession, Holmes," I chided gently, reminding him with a glance that I had been a soldier myself.

"What would you have him do, become a 'private consulting detective'? Or a government clerk like Mycroft?" Cressida demanded icily.

Holmes smiled slightly at the mention of his brother's position, the truth of which was evidently not common knowledge within the family. He said, "He clearly has the brain and talent for observation which would, given time, enable him to excel at either."

His cousin gave a very unladylike snort. "I very much hope not! I mean Ptolemy to have a proper, normal career, which will be something of an innovation in our family. Not one of the Holmes men has ever done anything sensible with his life. I remember old Uncle Beauregard and his attempts to introduce camel racing at Epsom…"

"You forget, my dear cousin, that our family has not, and never will be, normal," Holmes pointed out before I could ask her to elaborate on such a tantalising statement.

"More's the pity," she said, in a voice which effectively closed the subject. Picking up a shawl from the hall table, she led us back out into the afternoon sunshine. "In any case, I did not request your presence here this afternoon to discuss my son's prospects, but to find Barnabus Aloysius."

Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

"Who _is_ this Barnabus Aloysius?" I asked, confused.

My friend sighed. "I rather think it is the name of the unfortunate cat, Watson."

***

Mrs Peabody's house was reached via a wicket gate in the front garden. Cressida strode through the rather overgrown herbaceous borders, looking neither left or right, ascended the steps and rang the bell to the right of a black door which appeared in need of a coat of paint. She did not once glance behind her to make sure that we were following, instead apparently taking our obedience for granted. Her confidence was absolute, and reminded me very much of Holmes in one of his more masterful moods.

Her summons was answered almost immediately by a slightly out of breath and overweight young maid.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Cunningham," she said, stepping aside to allow us into the large, rather gloomy hall. In contrast to the bright, sun-dappled home we had just left, this house seemed somehow sad, almost neglected, as though the life had seeped away from it. I tried not to shiver, for the hall was chilly after the warmth of the afternoon outside. "Mrs Peabody is expecting you."

"You were very confident of my agreeing to accept the case," Holmes murmured to his cousin, eyes narrowed.

Cressida just raised her perfectly-plucked brows a fraction in response and made her way across the hall to a closed door in the shadows of the stairwell. She was obviously a regular visitor, for she knew exactly where she was going. The maid, moving far quicker than I would have expected one of her girth to do, beat her to it by a fraction of a second, and threw open the door, readying herself to announce us. Before she could do more than take a breath, however, a slightly querulous voice called from the room beyond:

"Is that you, Cressida, my dear? Have you brought him?"

"I have, Eliza," Cressida replied, her stern face softening for the first time into a genuine smile. "Allow me to present my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his friend Doctor Watson."

Holmes had hung back in the hall for a moment, and so I entered the cluttered, stuffy parlour first to find myself being scrutinised by a stout, elderly woman in black bombazine and a widow's cap. She peered at me for a moment before feeling amongst the frills adorning her ample bosom to produce a long-handled lorgnette, through which she looked me up and down with evident disappointment.

"Oh," she said, letting the spectacles drop back into place with a suddenly limp hand. "You're not quite what I was expecting. I confess I am not sure how a detective should look, but…"

"I - " I began, but Cressida interrupted me with an impatient sigh.

"No, Eliza, that is Doctor Watson." She looked around for Holmes, who at that moment completed whatever investigation he had been making of the hall and joined us amid the profusion of stuffed birds, photographs and antimacassars. Cressida's mouth tightened and her eyes glittered when she saw him. "Sherlock, what on earth have you been doing?" she demanded.

"Observing, my dear cousin," he replied, her irritation sliding off him as water does from the feathers of a duck.

Mrs Peabody quickly retrieved her lorgnette. "Is this him?"

"Sherlock Holmes, madam, at your service," Holmes replied with a slight bow.

She regarded him for a long moment before nodding decisively. "Yes, I can see that. At least you didn't inherit that unfortunate nose, Cressy," she remarked, adding before either Holmes or Cressida could protest, "Sit down, all of you – I can't stand people milling about."

We did so, Cressida taking the armchair on the opposite side of the hearth to Mrs Peabody's own, while Holmes and I tried not to lose ourselves within the cushions of an overstuffed sofa. It was only when we were seated that I realised there was another person in the room, who had made neither sound nor movement since we had entered. A mousy woman of what my mother would have termed 'an age', she sat on a low stool at the side of Mrs Peabody's chair, wire-rimmed pince-nez upon her long nose and an open book in her lap. She did not look up, or show that she was even aware of our presence. Mrs Peabody effected no introduction, and indeed gave no sign of being aware that she was even in the room at all, which I found most curious. I was on the verge of enquiring the lady's name when Holmes drew my attention back to the matter in hand.

"Now," he said, somehow sitting back on the sofa without immediately vanishing into its depths, "Mrs Peabody. Please tell me the exact circumstances in which you came to mislay your cat."

"Mislaid?" Mrs Peabody looked affronted. "I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that I have never 'mislaid' Barnabus Aloysius in my life! Someone has abducted him, and I need you to find them!"

"Indeed? I fear you must elaborate for my benefit. Why should anyone wish to abduct a family pet? Was it of particular value?"

"Barnabus Aloysius is rather more than just an ordinary pet, Sherlock," said Cressida. She looked at Mrs Peabody. "You had better tell him the truth, Eliza."

"Must I? But, whatever will he think? It is most irregular…" the widow muttered, flustered.

Holmes lifted an eyebrow. "If I am to assist you, madam, you must be entirely frank with me."

"You may trust our discretion, ma'am," I added. "We have kept the secrets of many over the years – even those of kings." From the corner of my eye I could see Holmes's mouth twitch in annoyance, but my words had the desired effect upon the lady.

"Well," she said folding her hands in her lap and looking from one of us to the other and back again, "in that case I suppose I can tell you. The truth is, gentlemen, that Barnabus Aloysius has always been a member of the family. He has been my company for many years, while my darling Hector was away on business, and I must admit that he is more of a child to me than a pet. It is because of this, and because sadly Hector and I could not have children of our own, that I have made the decision to name Barnabus Aloysius as my heir."

***

Silence reigned in the parlour for some moments after this admission. I could see from his expression that Holmes's brain was racing away with the information, but my own reaction was rather more prosaic.

"You have bequeathed your estate to a cat?" I queried a little incredulously. "Is that not a trifle…irregular?"

"Perhaps," said Mrs Peabody, bristling defensively, "but as there is no one else in the world to whom I would rather leave my worldly goods, it makes perfect sense to me."

"You have no family at all? No siblings…cousins?"

She shook her head. "My sister died ten years ago, after running away with a penniless poet, of you please! She broke our mother's heart, and she and our father quite disowned her. I believe she had children – one of them even wrote to my dear Hector after her funeral, requesting an interview with me but he refused. Quite rightly he told them that it would be far too distressing for me given the way in which their mother had treated the family. It took us all no little time to recover from the scandal."

"So you have never seen these children? It seems a pity to have family and yet be estranged from them," I said, aware of the glances Holmes and Cressida exchanged over my head. Their own familial relationship could hardly be termed close, but then such a situation appeared to be perfectly natural to them. To me it seemed quite alien, and quite sad for all involved, to have no contact with one's own flesh and blood.

"They were only trying to see what they could obtain for themselves," Mrs Peabody said, clutching almost reflexively at the locket about her neck. Her voice rose in agitation as she continued, "Their parents would not have left them anything, and Hector was a man of some means. I am sure that they meant to inveigle their way into our affections with a view to gaining an inheritance. They have written to me again since Hector's death, no doubt wishing to try their luck. Well, it shall not be! Barnabus Aloysius is to have the lot, and whatever is left when he eventually passes on will go to a charity for sick and distressed animals. That is my wish."

I nodded, backing away down the sofa a little under this tirade and wishing I had never broached the subject, for it was plainly a very sore point. In the resulting pause, Holmes sat forwards, one finger to his lips.

"When did you make the decision to change your will?" he enquired.

The widow blinked in surprise. "How did you know that I had altered the bequest?" she demanded. "Have you been spying upon me, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled briefly. "Madam, I may be many things but I am not omniscient. I had no inkling even of your existence until my cousin asked me to this afternoon look into your case. I would merely observe that as the animal has gone missing in the last few days, some event must have prompted the disappearance. Was it your own idea to change your will?"

"Of course. I was not sure precisely what I wanted to do with the money, but I was adamant that it should not fall into the hands of my sister's children."

"And someone suggested leaving everything to Barnabus Aloysius?" Holmes asked.

"My solicitor told me recently of a client who had bequeathed his entire estate to his favourite greyhound. The animal was kept in the very highest style for the rest of his days. I want nothing but the best for my darling and this is the most sensible way of assuring that," Mrs Peabody said quite seriously.

"And if the animal predeceases you?"

"Then the money will pass directly to the charity. I have made quite sure of the details."

"I see. And you believe your cat has been abducted precisely because he has become your heir?" Holmes asked the question with apparently sincerity, but I had to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile, for the situation was quite ludicrous. I was astounded that any lawyer worth his salt would even suggest such a scheme, and even doubted the legality of leaving an apparently large sum of money to a pet.

Mrs Peabody nodded. "Of course! It is the only explanation. Whoever has taken him intends to hold him to ransom. You must find him for me, Mr Holmes!"

"Ransom? Ah, then you have had a demand for money in exchange for his safety. I should like to see it." Holmes flicked out a hand expectantly, but the lady produced no letter. Instead she looked a little uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze and tapping her fingers upon the arm of her chair.

Cressida spoke in answer to her cousin's quizzical frown. "There has been no ransom letter."

"No ransom…? Mrs Peabody," said Holmes, making what appeared to be a valiant attempt to curb the irritation which was evidently welling up within him, "upon what evidence do you base this theory of abduction if there has been no demand? As far as I can ascertain, it is quite likely that the animal has walked from the house of his own accord!"

"That, Mr Holmes, is quite impossible," the widow replied, glaring at him.

My friend sighed sharply. "Why?" he asked.

Mrs Peabody lay back in her chair and tapped the woman sitting beside her on the shoulder. "Jane, do show him Barnabus Aloysius's room. I need to rest – all this questioning has quite exhausted me."

Jane rose smoothly, brushing down her skirts. "If you will follow me, Mr Holmes?" Her voice was soft, and as nondescript as her appearance. She moved as though gliding across the floor, and I received the overwhelming impression of a woman who had spent much of her life trying to be invisible.

"Watson," Holmes said, beckoning me to accompany him. Cressida would have come too, but saw that she could not leave Mrs Peabody alone and reluctantly remained in her seat. Her resentment at being left out of such a crucial part of the investigation was almost tangible, and I felt her sharp eyes upon me as I left the room.

"You are Mrs Peabody's companion, Miss -?" I asked as the quiet Jane led us down a dark corridor. Ahead a door stood ajar and I could hear a female voice humming. The clatter of crockery marked the room beyond out as the kitchen, and my assumption was further reinforced by the delicious scents wafting from within which caused my nostrils to twitch. At the end of the passage sunlight fell through a small stained glass panel in another door which must lead to the garden – bright colours dropped like jewels upon the rush matting which covered the floor, the only cheerful sight since we had entered this rather joyless house.

"Grey, sir, and I am indeed," Jane replied. She ventured no further information, but opened a third door, revealing a small chamber which held a piano, a stool and little else. A smell pervaded the room, and though it was less than pleasant I was sure I recognised it. When I caught sight of the wicker basket, lined with cushioned velvet, which sat upon the closed lid of the piano, I realised what it was – the room smelled overwhelmingly of cat. "This is Barnabus Aloysius's room."

"Does the animal spend all its time in here?" Holmes enquired, reaching into his coat and withdrawing the magnifying glass he always carried with him.

Miss Grey shook her head. "Only at night, or when Mrs Peabody is out. She cannot have him in the bedroom because he will not settle – the only place he will sleep is on top of the piano."

"Could the cat have escaped of its own accord?" I asked. The basket was covered with long, white strands, some of which Holmes removed with a pair of tweezers and stowed away in an envelope, no doubt for later analysis, but I could see few over the carpet.

"Never. Barnabus Aloysius is an elderly cat, and as Mrs Peabody will insist upon feeding him sweets, also an extremely fat one. He is taken everywhere in his basket, and only ever makes an attempt to leave it when his food is served."

I bit back my immediate desire to remark that the cat sounded remarkably like Holmes's brother Mycroft and looked around the room instead. There was little to see. It did not appear to have been cleaned recently, and I could see dust motes dancing in the light which trickled through the grimy windowpane. For all her apparent wealth, Mrs Peabody's domestic arrangements left much to be desired. I tried tapping one of the piano keys, and discovered it to be out of tune.

"Do you have charge of the animal's care, Miss Grey?" said Holmes, turning his attention to the floor. The companion watched impassively as he stretched out upon hands and knees, his glass barely an inch from its surface, like some great black-carapaced insect.

"I do not," she said. "Mrs Hanway, the cook and housekeeper, deals with him. I have my duties with Mrs Peabody."

"I see." Holmes was silent for some minutes as he made his examination of the floor. The room was barely large enough for the three of us and the piano – Miss Grey had remained in the doorway and I found myself perching upon the stool to make way for Holmes and his lens, lifting my feet out of his path. He eventually fetched up almost at Miss Grey's skirts, and sat back upon his heels. "Is the door locked at night?"

"It was not considered necessary. The cat could not walk away, and the entire house is secured at eight o'clock every evening. I lock all the exterior doors myself."

"Including the one at the end of the hall?"

"Especially that one."

"Of course, that door would be the only possible escape route for a would-be catnapper, would it not?" Holmes gave one of his swift smiles. "I take it that there was nothing amiss on Tuesday morning when you came down to breakfast?"

"Nothing," said Miss Grey. "The garden door was still bolted on the inside as I had left it. We summoned the police at Mrs Peabody's insistence but they examined the ground in vain."

"So Barnabus Aloysius vanished into thin air. A somewhat unlikely occurrence," my friend muttered. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his trousers. A speck of dirt appeared to cling stubbornly to the fabric and I offered him my handkerchief which he used to dust his knees before pocketing both it and his lens. "I should like to speak to the housekeeper," he announced.

"Of course." Miss Grey stood aside to allow us to leave the room and closed the door behind us. As she did I caught sight of her hand on the doorknob – the skin was mottled red and white with a nasty (and no doubt painful) rash. My medical instincts coming to the fore I immediately took her wrist in a gentle hold for a closer examination, only for her to draw it away.

"You have hurt yourself, Miss Grey," I said, concerned, for the area was somewhat inflamed.

"It is nothing," she responded calmly. "A slight accident."

"I am a doctor, ma'am, and I do not agree. You should have it attended to at once. How did you come by it?"

She met my gaze with a rather unnervingly direct stare, a surprise after her refusal to look in my direction in the presence of Mrs Peabody. "I was doing some work in the garden a few days ago and encountered a bed of nettles. That is all."

"One would hope that you also discovered a ready supply of dock leaves," Holmes remarked with – in my view – misplaced jocularity.

Miss Grey turned her gaze upon him. He merely raised an eyebrow in response. "I did, thank you," she said. "Mrs Hanway is in the kitchen, if you will come."

"That was uncalled for, Holmes," I hissed to my friend as he moved to follow.

He shook his head and briefly touched my shoulder. "Leave it, Watson," he murmured, before we were ushered into the presence of Mrs Hanway and I was forcibly reminded that it been several hours since luncheon.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER THREE**

The housekeeper was in the midst of a flurry of baking.

"For the church fete on Sunday," she explained as she welcomed us into her sanctum and tried to press tea and cake upon us. "Mrs Peabody always takes something sweet around this time." I would gladly have accepted, but a glance from Holmes was quite eloquent enough to encourage me to turn down the offer. Miss Grey, murmuring that she must return to her mistress, glided away. Holmes shut the door after her and turned to Mrs Hanway.

"Now," he said, "I understand that you put the cat in his basket on Monday night?"

"I did indeed, sir. I always put Barnabus Aloysius to bed," Mrs Hanway replied. "He had a saucer of milk and settled down quite happily."

"It is rather unusual, given the concern she shows about the animal's safety, that Mrs Peabody does not see to him herself," I remarked. "One would think that she kept him with her at all times."

"He can be rather difficult," said the housekeeper. "I'm the only one he'll allow to put him down in his basket. He'll sit quite happily at Mrs Peabody's side, but she can't do a thing with him. In truth, he's worse than a child, sir. Once he decided he would only sleep on the piano…" She threw up her floury hands helplessly. "Sukey – that's the maid, sir – can't go near him for fear of being bitten, and Miss Grey comes out in red lumps if she as much as touches his basket."

"Really? That is interesting," Holmes said, pacing the length of the kitchen. "He is not a placid animal, then?"

"Most assuredly not, sir. I always wondered why Mrs Peabody took such a fancy to him when there were far more affectionate kittens in the litter. Mr Peabody offered her the pick of them, but she chose Barnabus Aloysius."

"Regarding the events of Monday night - you have had no strangers come to the house lately? No one has had access without Mrs Peabody's knowledge?"

Mrs Hanway shook her head. "No, sir. Mr Clatworthy, the solicitor, has been once or twice with some papers for the mistress to sign, but that's all. We've had no visitors except yourselves. And the police, of course."

"Who summoned the police?"

"Miss Grey, for Mrs Peabody was quite hysterical. She kept crying out 'They've taken him, they've taken him!' though I don't know who 'they' should be. Who would want to steal a bad-tempered old cat, sir?"

"Who indeed? Miss Grey tells me that the police found no evidence of any forced entry when they made their investigations," said Holmes, walking past a succulent-looking fruit cake which stood upon a cooling rack on the table without even glancing at it. I found my eyes continually straying in that direction trying to ignore the rumbling my stomach had begun to make as it was stirred by the wonderful smells coming from the oven. Mrs Hanway noticed my interest and went to the dresser, taking out a plate and a knife.

"That's true enough, sir," she replied, cutting a huge slice of cake and presenting it to me. "They said the ground was too dry and hard to make out any footprints in the garden. The back door was still bolted in the morning, so unless they somehow came in through an open window I can't see how it was done. And there's something else that's been bothering me, though I've not mentioned it to Mrs Peabody."

Holmes stopped his pacing and turned to look at her directly. "Yes?"

"Whoever did it must have somehow managed to subdue Barnabus Aloysius. He doesn't like strangers, you see, sir," Mrs Hanway added for clarification. "Well, truth be told he doesn't really like anybody except me and Miss Xanthe from next door, but the first time Mr Clatworthy came to call he flew at him like a creature possessed and almost took his eye out. Terrifying he was! I never thought he had it in him to move so fast, for he's a lazy thing at the best of times. We had to shut him in the music room whenever the solicitor came after that."

"A delightful creature," I remarked around a piece of cake. The housekeeper smiled indulgently as I demolished her cooking, but Holmes looked less than impressed.

"Does Mr Clatworthy call regularly?" he enquired, holding up a hand in refusal when Mrs Hanway began to cut another slice.

"About once a month. The old lawyer never used to come so often, but Mrs Peabody has been making some changes to her affairs recently."

"Ah, so Mr Clatworthy is not Mrs Peabody's usual solicitor."

The housekeeper frowned. "I suppose not. He mentioned the other gentleman retiring, and that he had taken over from him, I think, but I can't remember exactly."

Holmes nodded. "Thank you, Mrs Hanway, you have been most helpful. Have you finished, Watson?" he asked as I popped the last bite of fruit cake into my mouth. I mumbled something in the affirmative and rose to leave with him. As he reached the door he stopped and turned back to the housekeeper. "Oh, one more thing: are you able to tell me how long Miss Jane Grey has been in your mistress's employ?"

Mrs Hanway looked surprised at the question, but said, "Just over two years, sir. Mrs Peabody took her on from an agency a few months after the death of her husband. She couldn't cope alone, you see – her Hector was everything to her."

"Do you by any chance recall the name of the agency?" Holmes asked hopefully.

She shook her head. "I never knew it, sir. Sukey deals with the postman."

Holmes looked disappointed, but thanked her again. We were nearly in the passageway when she suddenly called us back and added,

"I don't know for sure, sir but I believe it might have been in the West End."

***

"Well, Watson, this case grows in interest," Holmes said ten minutes later after a futile examination of the path leading from the back door. As both the companion and housekeeper had said, there was no evidence to be found for there had been no rain in over a fortnight and the ground was solid. All Holmes was able to ascertain was that no one had picked the lock, for the keyhole and its surround were both free from scratches.

"You believe so?" I asked, surprised. The whole thing smacked of farce to me.

He gave me a pointed look. "I might have expected you to draw some conclusions from the housekeeper's testimony, but of course far more important things occupied your attention." He brushed lightly at his upper lip, and I realised with some embarrassment that I must have cake crumbs caught in my moustache. As I tried to surreptitiously remove them, he cocked an amused eyebrow at me. "Good cake, was it?"

"Excellent. Almost on a par with Mrs Hudson's."

"High praise indeed! Well, while you were indulging your sweet tooth, I was exercising my wits."

"With what results?"

In response he threw open the parlour door and strode into the room, leaving me to bring up the rear. The three women grouped around the empty hearth looked up, startled by his abrupt entrance.

"Mrs Peabody," he announced with the exuberance I knew from long experience meant he was hot on the scent, "Doctor Watson and I must return to Baker Street now, but I promise you we will be in touch within the next few days."

The widow blinked at him in astonishment, Miss Grey was impassive and Cressida curious though trying not to show it. "Have you solved it?" she asked.

"Hardly, my dear cousin, hardly! But I have some leads. Good day to you, ladies – we will see ourselves out." Holmes whirled around and exited the parlour with the same suddenness as he had entered.

I made my excuses and followed, hearing Cressida's outraged cry of "Sherlock!" behind me. Holmes did not turn and so I also paid it no heed, hurrying after him and smiling apologetically at the bemused Sukey as I passed her in the hall.

It was a full five minutes before Cressida joined us in the garden, as we lingered by the wicket gate. Her expression was thunderous, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Holmes appeared not to notice this, leaning against the gate and examining the magnolia which was growing over the wall from next door. It looked rather out of place amongst the overgrown wilderness which seemed to be rapidly taking over Mrs Peabody's premises.

"Well?" Cressida said, coming to a halt before her cousin. "What have you discovered?" When Holmes did not reply, she demanded shrilly, "_Tell me_!"

"Alas, I must decline," Holmes said with an expression of almost genuine regret. "I would prefer to keep my theories to myself until I have had an opportunity to test them. I am sure you understand." He turned and opened the gate, slipping through and leaving her standing there, mouth working up and down in speechless rage.

It did not take her long to recover from her paralysis, and she was striding up the path after him at an impressive rate given the way her skirts hampered her movements. "Oh, I understand!" she shouted after him. "I understand that you are being deliberately infuriating. You always did want to explain everything at the last moment for maximum dramatic impact. Well, I am not one of your grateful clients ready to be dazzled by your brilliant deductions, Sherlock! I asked you here to assist a friend of mine, and the least you can do - "

"Asked?" Holmes stopped, and she almost walked into his back. He turned, and fixed her with a gimlet stare. "You did not request, cousin, you _demanded_ my presence. As you have failed to extend any courtesy to me I fail to see why you should expect me to do so for you!"

Cressida looked as though she would at any moment explode. Colour had stung her pale cheeks and her eyes glittered dangerously. "Why, you insufferable, arrogant - "

"Ah, there is the end of a peaceful afternoon," a voice said at my shoulder as I contemplated slipping away to retrieve my hat. I jumped, and turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman of a similar age to myself standing there regarding the warring cousins with amused exasperation. Soberly dressed, he had a handsome face, impressive chestnut whiskers and a twinkle in his green eyes. He held out a hand. "Charles Cunningham. Late of the 2nd Dragoons and hen-pecked husband of yon firebrand over there. You must be Doctor Watson – Ptolemy has just been telling me all about you."

I took the hand and had mine shaken firmly. "I rather think Master Cunningham was more taken by Holmes than myself," I said.

"Not a bit of it! The lad's got his heart set on joining the army, and he just reminded me that you were out in India some years ago, before you met Sherlock."

"Indeed, and Afghanistan. Terrible times."

"Which regiment were you attached to, if you don't mind my asking?" said Cunningham, and when I told him we enjoyed a good few minutes' conversation on the subject before an enraged scream and a slammed door alerted us to the end of the argument between the cousins. Holmes had fetched our hats and sticks and came swiftly down the path towards myself and the colonel. "Of course," Cunningham said, "for all their dramatics they do have a respect for each other. An extremely grudging respect, it is true, but respect nonetheless. Unfortunately, they are so similar in temperament that they have always contrived to rub each other up the wrong way."

"So I see," I responded as Holmes reached our spot beneath the chestnut tree.

Cunningham started forwards, hand outstretched. "Sherlock. Delighted to see you! It's been too long."

Holmes's austere face broke into a broad smile at the sight of the colonel, proving to my relief that his animosity towards his cousin did not extend to her husband. "A good twenty years, I believe," he said. "Mycroft told me you had retired, Charles."

"Indeed, yes. Cressy finally convinced me to buy myself out. Working for the Army Board is taking a little getting used to, I have to say, grateful as I am to your brother for helping me obtain the position. I had no idea he had so much influence these days!" When Holmes did not respond to the mention of Mycroft, Cunningham continued, "All this talking about action rather than taking part in it is damned frustrating, I can tell you!" He laughed, but I could understand how difficult a transition to civilian life could be for one used to a regimented existence in the field. We walked towards the gate, and he accompanied us. "Any news of Old Mother Peabody's cat?"

"You knew Cressida had consulted me?" Holmes asked in surprise.

"Knew, disapproved and attempted to dissuade her. I told her that you had far more important cases to occupy your time, but you know what she's like when she gets the bit between her teeth. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd turned and high-tailed it back to London as soon as this storm in a teacup was mentioned."

"We nearly did," I said, but Holmes waved a dismissive hand.

"There are one or two points of interest," he declared. "I need to be satisfied upon them before I can come to a conclusion, but I do not anticipate the case dragging on beyond Wednesday at the latest."

Cunningham looked relieved. "I am glad to hear it. Mrs Peabody has been driving Cressy to distraction over it, and Xanthe is very attached to the ridiculous animal - "

The sound of the front door of the house opening suddenly drew our attention – two small figures flew out, racing down the path towards us.

"Cousin Sherlock! Cousin Sherlock!" Ptolemy cried breathlessly, almost tripping over himself as he came to an abrupt halt before Holmes. "We were afraid you had gone! Mama wouldn't let us tell you, but we think you should know."

Holmes frowned. "Know what?"

"A vital clue! We simply must tell you!"

"A clue?" I repeated.

"Yes, Doctor Watson!" Ptolemy insisted. "Xanthe saw the person who took Barnabus Aloysius!"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_Many thanks to those who have reviewed! I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)_

**Author's Note:**_ As this fic is set in 1899 and I'm moving into Granada's _Casebook_ era, I'm taking their stance that Watson has his practice in Queen Anne Street while still living at 221B._

**

* * *

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**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Holmes stiffened, like a hunting dog on point.

"You actually saw someone with the cat?" he asked sharply. "You are sure?"

"Ptolemy, don't play games with Mr Holmes," Colonel Cunningham said in a warning tone.

"It's true, Papa! Honestly!" his son replied. Hovering at his shoulder, Xanthe nodded enthusiastically. "We can help cousin Sherlock with his investigation!"

Cunningham sighed, as though this kind of interruption were a regular occurrence. "Ptolemy…"

Holmes held up a hand. "Wait, Charles. I would be very interested to hear what the children have to say."

The colonel looked surprised, but said, "Well, if you're sure - "

"I am indeed."

"Holmes, treat Xanthe gently," I said in a low voice. "She's very shy – don't frighten her."

He pursed his lips impatiently for a moment before he nodded. Turning to the expectant children, he bent down so that he did not tower quite so far over them, particularly the diminutive Xanthe. "Well, then, Miss Cunningham," he said, "I would be very grateful if you will come and tell me what it was you saw." She held back, clutching her brother's sleeve, and I was not entirely surprised, for Holmes could seem very intimidating even to me at times, with his great height, piercing gaze and sometimes strident voice. Apparently sensing this, he smiled and held out a hand to her. Ptolemy whispered something in her ear, and after a moment or two more she hesitantly put her little fingers into Holmes's palm. Straightening, he led her back up the path to the front steps, Ptolemy walking at his side. It made a strange picture, for one did not often see Holmes with children other than his ragamuffin band of street urchins.

He sat down on the steps, setting his hat beside him, so that he and Xanthe were almost eye to eye. "Now," he said, with that remarkable gentleness of which he was capable when it pleased him, "I understand that you were wakeful on Monday night. Do you often look out of the window when everyone else has gone to bed?"

Colonel Cunningham and I took a careful pace or two towards the little group, but even at a shorter distance I could only just catch Xanthe's words as she said in a very soft voice,

"Sometimes. When I have bad dreams." Holmes, prey to nightmares himself, nodded sympathetically, which seemed to encourage her, and she added, "I like to look for the man in the moon, and I know when I find him everything will be all right."

"Very wise of you. You saw someone leaving Mrs Peabody's house that night?"

Xanthe nodded, her black curls bobbing. "I heard the gate squeak, so I looked out again. Someone was walking down the road, away from the house."

"Could you tell whether it was a man or a woman?"

The little girl now shook her head. "It was too dark, and they wore a cloak with a big hood." She screwed up her face in deep thought. "They were small, smaller than Papa and Doctor Watson, and much , much smaller than you…Cousin Sherlock."

Holmes smiled at her hesitant use of his name. "And how do you know that?" he asked.

Ptolemy, desperate to be included, opened his mouth, but his sister got there first, emboldened by Holmes's attention. "The tree," she said, and pointed to the chestnut beneath which her father and I still stood. Some of its branches reached over the garden wall into the street, bowed beneath the weight of their bounty – we had had to move closer to the trunk in order to avoid hitting our heads.

"Ah." Holmes nodded. "I see. You mean this person could walk beneath the branches without ducking their head? You are indeed a most observant young lady."

Xanthe's small face lit up with pride. "They had a basket over their arm, too," she said. "I noticed because it was much too late to go shopping and I thought it was a funny thing to be carrying at night."

"It must have had Barnabus Aloysius inside!" Ptolemy declared, at last able to break into the discussion.

Holmes raised a finger. "We must not allow ourselves to draw conclusions before all the facts are to hand," he said, and got to his feet, putting on his hat as he rose. He checked his watch. "It is getting late, and we will miss our train if we do not hurry. Thank you, Miss Cunningham, you have been of great assistance to me."

Xanthe blushed, and Ptolemy looked more than a little jealous. Oblivious to this, Holmes swept down the path, swinging his stick, his stride purposeful.

"Come, Watson!" he cried. "Good day to you, Charles – we will return within the week."

Cunningham looked bemused, but waved in farewell as his children ran to him, talking excitedly. I fell into step with Holmes, and as we turned the corner heard a small voice carried on the breeze announce,

"Papa, I like Cousin Sherlock, but he is a very strange man!"

* * *

As the following day was Sunday Holmes could make little progress on the case, and indeed appeared to put it entirely from his mind. Instead he embarked upon several lively compositions upon his violin, filling the house with music and causing myself and Mrs Hudson no little confusion, for only two days before he had been skulking around the sitting room, chewing on his fingernails and bemoaning the lack of ingenuity of the criminal classes in general. I would never have imagined that sparring with his cousin and the theft of an overweight Persian cat could affect such a change in his mood.

On Monday morning when I ventured down to breakfast I met Mrs Hudson on the landing. The good lady was tutting and shaking her head at the empty plate on her tray, and I could not help but enquire as to the source of her apparent distress.

"Mr Holmes, of course," she replied. "Is he sickening for something do you think, Doctor?"

I frowned. "Not as far as I am aware. Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, when he asks for breakfast early and then proceeds to actually eat all that is put before him with enthusiasm before leaving the house whistling to himself – yes, sir, _whistling_! – I cannot help but wonder," Mrs Hudson said, and bustled off with a heavenward role of her eyes.

My practice being somewhat busy of late, I was engaged upon appointments and visits all day, and did not return to Baker Street until the early evening. The open window on the first floor and the strains of Beethoven's _Pastoral_ drifting through the sash were enough to tell me that Holmes was also back, and I hastened up the seventeen stairs to discover what he had been doing with himself since his departure that morning.

By the time I reached the sitting room the Stradivarius lay abandoned on the sofa and Holmes was ensconced in his armchair. He glanced up from lighting a cigarette to acknowledge my entrance but said nothing and so I settled myself on the opposite side of the hearth with my newspaper, intending to comfortably while away the time until dinner.

Eventually, after taking a lungful of smoke and expelling it towards the ceiling in a slow breath, Holmes asked, "Watson, do you have a surgery tomorrow evening?"

I looked up, surprised by the question, and immediately recalled Mrs Hudson's pronouncement of earlier. "If you are unwell there is no need to attend the surgery, Holmes," I said, and he smiled.

"You misunderstand me, my dear fellow. I have need of your premises rather than your medical attention. Would six o'clock be convenient?"

"For what, precisely?"

Holmes tapped ash out into a saucer on the table at his elbow. "An interview. I had cause today to engage a ladies' companion, you see, and I am afraid I gave your professional address in Queen Anne Street to the head of the agency quite by accident." He looked apologetic, but I was not taken in for a moment.

"Holmes, you never do anything by accident," I said, pulling an amused frown. "Who is this woman, and why have you secured her services?"

"To the latter, my sister has need of a chaperone. As for the former…establishing her identity is the purpose of the interview."

"Your sister…I see. Am I to meet this no doubt charming lady of whom I have heard nothing until now?" Holmes merely raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, so I continued, "I take it from this that you have engaged this person without first making her acquaintance."

"Indeed. I was, I confess, looking for a woman with very specific accomplishments. The agency in Kensington was by my calculations the seventh in the West End that I tried. Though currently engaged by a widowed lady in the suburbs, she is willing to attend an interview so that I may discover whether she will be suitable." He glanced at me. "Rather curious, is it not, that a woman already gainfully employed would ask an agency to retain her name upon its books as though she were immediately free?"

I shrugged. "It does not seem to be common practise. I suppose one could say that it showed disloyalty to her employer, and even avarice, of she is continually seeking a better situation."

"Very true." Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. "In addition, if you are not busy I have made an appointment tomorrow morning with Mr Montague Clatworthy, senior partner with Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce of Gray's Inn Road."

My frown returned, and this time it was serious. "Are you in need of a lawyer?"

"In a way." He picked up a letter from the table beside his chair and fluttered it at me. "I have some personal business with Mr Clatworthy with regards to my godmother's will."

I took the letter and read the line inscribed there it a flowery, feminine hand:

_I hereby give my consent for my godson, Mr Sherlock Holmes, to view my last will and testament,_

Signed, Elizabeth Peabody

"Holmes, what is this?" I asked, somewhat incredulously. "First non-existent sisters and now a godmother…I am willing to believe much about your family, but you had not met Mrs Peabody before Friday afternoon!"

My friend sighed. "Watson, Watson, do not be obtuse. It merely serves to corroborate that false impression of your intelligence which you persist in presenting to your _Strand_ readers."

Not sure what to make of this somewhat back-handed compliment, I thought for a moment. Realisation dawning, I snapped my fingers. "Of course! You wish to examine the will to check that it is genuine."

"Oh, I have no doubt that it is genuine. However, I wish to ascertain the exact wording of the bequest. I wired Mrs Peabody this morning, and she has consented to assist in a little innocent deception. Without her permission, we would be turned away at the door. So," said Holmes, getting to his feet just as Mrs Hudson entered with the dinner tray, "if you are agreeable, we will see Mr Clatworthy at nine o'clock tomorrow, and begin to test my theories."

* * *

The offices of Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce were a hive of activity when we arrived, punctually at nine the following morning. As we waited, a rather harassed clerk informed us that Mr Clatworthy would not be longer than strictly necessary – unfortunately a client had been waiting upon the doorstep since eight o'clock and demanded to be attended to immediately.

"He presented himself and would not leave until Mr Clatworthy gave his assurances that his case would be concluded by the end of the week," the young man said, struggling not to drop any of the teetering pile of papers tied with red ribbon that he carried.

"Is that likely?" I asked, more to make conversation than from curiosity, as Holmes had not responded.

"Impossible, as the case has yet to be put before the bench," the clerk replied, "and since his land dispute is with the Crown, I doubt if it will be in the near future."

It appeared that he was correct, as a few minutes later a large, imposing and most definitely angry man stalked past us towards the door, his meaty hands clenching the handle of his walking stick as though he would like to bring it into contact with the skull of someone nearby. I moved very carefully out of his way as a bell rang from the depths of the building and the clerk announced that Mr Clatworthy would see us now.

"I do apologise for keeping you waiting," the gentleman himself said a few moments later as he welcomed us into his office. "Unfortunately Mr Johnson is rather…persistent."

"So we gathered," I replied, but Holmes waved an impatient hand.

"Mr Clatworthy," he said, coming straight to the point as was his wont, "I take it you have the document I requested?"

"Of course, of course," Clatworthy responded, reaching for a sheaf of legal papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. "I own I was a little surprised, as I was given to believe that Mrs Peabody was quite satisfied with the final draft of the will. Does she not wish to check the papers herself?"

Holmes favoured the solicitor with one of his fleeting smiles. "Alas, she finds herself unable to leave Harrow at the present time, which is why she asked me to look over them for her. My godmother is apt to be absentminded on occasion, and fears she may have omitted a small bequest she had intended to make." His eyes shot sideways to glance at me as he spoke, but I kept a creditably straight face at this mention of his 'relation'.

Clatworthy nodded. "Of course, of course." He laid out the will on the desk before Holmes. "Here you are, sir. I am sure you will find everything to be in order."

There was silence as my friend acquainted himself with the details of Mrs Peabody's wishes, a silence I felt compelled to break as it stretched on longer than was comfortable. "It is somewhat unusual, is it not," I began, "to leave such a large bequest to a - "

" – person who is not a blood relative," Holmes finished for me, before I could mention Barnabus Aloysius.

The solicitor spread his hands, sitting back in his chair. "I have seen it many times, gentlemen, the result of family quarrels and the like. One baronet for whom I acted bequeathed his entire estate to favourite dog, would you believe! I did try to convince him to change his mind, but he was adamant. His children were only allowed to share in the money if they kept the animal in the style to which it had become accustomed."

"Is such a bequest legal?" I asked convinced that it must not be.

"A trust had already been set up for the purpose, and so the bequest of the estate to that trust was perfectly legal, yes," said Clatworthy. "Without a trust, such a bequest would be very difficult to organise. Pets cannot inherit vast sums of money as easily as would people, naturally."

I looked at Holmes, waiting for him to ask the obvious question regarding a trust for Barnabus Aloysius, but to my surprise he did not, merely folding the papers and handing them to the solicitor before getting to his feet. "All appears to be as it should. Purely to satisfy my own curiosity, would I right in thinking that you mentioned this most fortunate canine of which you speak to Mrs Peabody, perhaps in passing?" he enquired.

Clatworthy frowned. "No - though I am senior partner here I am not Mrs Peabody's solicitor and I have not personally met the lady. Mr Bingham was dealing with her affairs, but sadly he has been forced to retire due to ill health. My nephew, Magnus, has taken over Mr Bingham's clients. He may have spoken of Lord Amersham to Mrs Peabody, but I cannot confirm it."

"Is Mr Magnus Clatworthy here today?" Holmes asked hopefully. "As he is working on behalf of my godmother it may be as well that I speak to him."

"Unfortunately he is at present visiting a client in Norwood, and will not return until this afternoon. If you wish to make a further appointment - "

"Alas, I regret that I will be going out of town for a few days tonight." A thoughtful expression came over Holmes's face, and he stood with a finger pressed to his lips for a moment before he said, "Now I consider it I believe I may have met your nephew before. Does he have a scar just here, gained quite recently?" He lightly drew a line across his own forehead with his fingertip, just shy of his left eye.

Mr Clatworthy looked surprised, but replied in the affirmative. "An accident with a fencing foil, I believe," he added. "He is a keen proponent of the sport."

Holmes nodded sagely. "Ah, yes, that explains it. I am no stranger to the blade myself." He reached into his coat and withdrew his card case – removing one he scribbled something on the reverse and handed it to Clatworthy. "I am sure you will appreciate that I am somewhat anxious to settle my godmother's affairs before I leave London. If you would be so good as to ask Mr Magnus to call upon me at a quarter past six this evening, I would be most grateful."

The solicitor looked a little bemused, but took the card and assured Holmes he would pass on the message. With that, my friend shepherded me from the office and out into the bright spring sunlight.

I opened my mouth to speak but he just smiled and shook his head, turning and striding off towards the Euston Road. I gave chase, eventually falling into step with him. "Are you going to share nothing with me?" I asked, a little disgruntled that I was not to receive an explanation to the conversation I had just witnessed and adding when he did not answer, "_Holmes_!"

He stopped walking and turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows at my annoyance. "Oh, well, if you insist. The terms of Mrs Peabody's will leave nothing to her infernal cat. It is quite clear that Mr Montague Clatworthy has no knowledge of the document's contents from his remarks to you regarding the establishment of trusts," he replied. "A trust has indeed been established, and the estate is to pass to said trust upon Mrs Peabody's death. There is no mention of Barnabus Aloysius at all."

I stared in astonishment. "Then the cat is no legal heir! Why should anyone wish to steal him if that is the case?"

"I would imagine to remove him from his mistress's affections. One would assume that after Mr Magnus Clatworthy mentioned Lord Amersham's greyhound to her she set her heart upon leaving everything to her darling Barnabus Aloysius. Once her intentions were known, certain persons took steps to eliminate the rival for their inheritance – with the cat gone, she might gradually be brought to believe that making a more sensible alteration to her will would be for the best."

"But who would wish to do such a thing? The children of Mrs Peabody's sister?"

Holmes spotted a cab which had just dropped off a fare at the entrance to St Pancras station, and called out to the driver, making me jump. "That," he said as he climbed aboard, "is what I intend to establish at six o'clock this evening."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Holmes dropped me off at my surgery, and then retained the cab to go about some business of his own, promising faithfully that he would return a little before six. I did not relish the prospect of being left to deal with the person who services he had engaged without him being present.

In his absence, I took the opportunity to make my way through the pile of papers which had grown to mountainous proportions on my desk. I worked diligently through the day, stopping only for a brief luncheon and to make an emergency call two streets away, and by the time the clock struck a quarter-to I was close to seeing my blotter once more.

Holmes was as good as his word, and strode into my consulting room at ten minutes to the hour, throwing his hat and stick down unceremoniously upon the couch. After greeting me he said nothing, preferring instead to stand by the window and take advantage of the excellent view it provided of the street outside. I waited, and then, as the minute hand ticked closer to six, started from my chair.

"I will leave you to your appointment, then."

"No!" Holmes whirled away from the window, flinging out a hand to stay my departure. "Don't move, Watson. Your continued presence will be invaluable to me."

"In that case, will you not enlighten me as to your plan?" I asked, resuming my seat.

After glancing through the window once more he let the net curtain fall, and came to perch upon the edge of my desk, searching his pockets for his cigarette case. He ignored my disapproving murmur at his lighting one in my consulting room and touched a match to the end, inhaling the resulting smoke gratefully.

"I plan," he said, "to catch the person responsible for abducting Barnabus Aloysius; the person responsible for attempting to cheat Mrs Peabody's heirs out of her estate."

"But Mrs Peabody has no heirs! She said herself that she wants nothing to do with her sister's children," I pointed out.

"The _cat_ is the heir, Watson. Nonsensical though the notion is, Mrs Peabody acted quite legally. I wired Cressida yesterday for information, and she tells me that the instructions regarding the future care of Barnabus Aloysius _were_ drawn up, but as a codicil to the original will," Holmes said, glancing at the clock. "She witnessed the alteration at Mrs Peabody's request. However, that amendment has – either by accident or design – parted company with the document itself."

"The surely the solicitor must be involved."

"Precisely. You observed, of course, that he told his uncle he had come by a recent scar due to a fencing accident. We know from Mrs Hanway the housekeeper that he was attacked by the belligerent feline."

I frowned. From the simple theft of a cat the case had become considerably more complicated. "But why would he do such a thing? He could hardly seek to benefit himself – Mrs Peabody barely knows him."

"Oh, he was merely the accomplice. The real culprit is someone very close to the widow, someone who is in her confidence and knew precisely which changes she intended to make to her will." Holmes leapt up and crossed to the window once more. "This person has been waiting patiently to make their move, and evidently had some hopes of their scheme coming to fruition soon, hence the agency having their name on its books. I took the liberty of using your address when making this appointment because I desired to conceal my identity. Had they known it was I who wished to engage their services, they would not be about to ring your front doorbell."

"But - " I began. He held up a hand.

"Do be a hospitable fellow and let them in," he said as the bell pealed through the house.

I rose to do as I was bade, having sent the maid home early in anticipation of Holmes preferring the forthcoming interview to be a private one. As I opened the door to my surprise I found myself coming face to face not with an unknown woman sent from a West End agency, but someone who rang dim bells of recognition in the back of my mind.

It took me a few seconds to realise it, but standing on my doorstep was Miss Jane Grey.

* * *

She looked momentarily startled at the sight of me, but recovered herself swiftly, her impassive mask sliding neatly back into place.

"I do beg your pardon. I must have mistaken the house," she said, and began to turn. Before she could walk away, Holmes, who had evidently slipped like lightning down the stairs behind me and emerged from the area below, effectively cutting off her escape. Absently I noticed that the potted bay tree which stood outside the building two doors away had moved to obscure my professional nameplate. He had thought of everything.

"It would be most discourteous of you to leave so soon, Miss Grey," he said, "especially before I have had a chance to assess your suitability as a companion."

Her eyes narrowed. "You have lured me here under false pretences, Mr Holmes."

"A little deception, but no worse than those in which you have indulged over the years," Holmes countered. He extended a hand, indicating that she should precede him into the house. "Shall we? I do so dislike conducting business in the street."

Seeing that she was outnumbered and there was no policeman within call, Miss Grey inclined her head and picked up her skirts, gliding past me into the hall. I stared after her for a moment in amazement.

"Holmes, do you mean that Miss Grey is the one who abducted Barnabus Aloysius?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said, flicking the end of his cigarette into the bay tree's pot. "She is the only person with the motive and opportunity. Miss Grey, in addition to her outward role as a professional ladies' companion, is also an accomplished confidence trickster dedicated to relieving wealthy elderly ladies of their fortunes."

* * *

I could not believe it.

When we returned to the consulting room, Miss Grey was sitting in the chair before my desk which I reserved for patients, her gloved hands folded primly in her lap. In truth, she did not look like a woman capable of committing wholesale fraud and deception, but I could not deny that there was something unsettling about her calm demeanour.

I stood to one side, leaving my leather chair for Holmes, but instead he chose to pace the room, lighting up another cigarette. Miss Grey watched him with a flicker of distaste, and I tactfully opened a window.

"Now, Miss Grey," Holmes said, pausing and turning abruptly to face her, "Or shall I call you Magdalena Moffett? Grace Valance? Emilia Courtney? Do please choose which alias you would prefer me to use when addressing you."

The lady regarded him with disdain. "I have nothing to say to you, Mr Holmes. If you believe me to have committed some crime, then let us summon the police."

"Oh, we shall do so in due course, never fear. Where is the cat?"

"You have no proof of anything."

"Really? Well, let us see if I can piece a few facts together." Holmes took a seat once more on the edge of the desk and gestured to me to sit down as well. He took a long draw from his cigarette and exhaled slowly before continuing. Miss Grey waved the smoke away contemptuously. "Some years ago, you were companion to Lady Cassandra Clooney, taken on with excellent references at the recommendation of Fry's Agency in Kensington. You remained with Lady Clooney for nearly five years, during which you gained her every confidence and were bequeathed a substantial amount in the old lady's will. You had not expected the legacy, but when it came it sparked an idea in your cunning mind: if one wealthy widow had left you a considerable amount of money, why should others not do the same thing? It was then that your criminal career was born. Over the next ten years you persuaded no less than five more vulnerable women to remember you with a sizeable bequest."

"Very interesting," Miss Grey said, sounding bored. "Did you summon me here to tell me fairy stories?"

Holmes ignored her. "I had been keeping a record of such legacies," he told me, as though the lady had not been in the room. "Lestrade came to me in the winter of '89 after the family of one widow – a Mrs Amelia Bampton - suspected foul play. Her death had come far sooner than expected – she was in weak health, but her doctors had given no cause for alarm. She had even engaged a companion a few weeks before, a Miss Magdalena Moffett. Miss Moffett had left the house by the time I became involved, and we could find no evidence of any wrongdoing. The deceased had indeed perished from natural causes, and the will was quite watertight. It had been altered just a week before the unfortunate lady's death, in favour of the woman who had been, as she put it, 'her comfort through her final days'."

"Did you find this person?" I asked. Though I recalled something of the case, I had been working on a locum basis at Charing Cross hospital at the time and been too busy to assist.

"Alas, no. She had covered her tracks well and vanished without trace. The curious thing is that none of Mrs Bampton's family could describe this woman, being only able to recall vague details of her hair or clothing. The same was true of the companion engaged by the other widows – no one had paid her much attention because she was so quiet and unassuming." Holmes glanced at the woman sitting to his right and added, "I would like you to do something for me, Watson: cover your eyes and then describe Miss Grey to me."

Bemused, I did as he requested. "Well, the lady is small of stature, has brown hair, wears a blue dress and has a dove grey shawl."

"Nothing else? Do think carefully, my dear fellow."

I did, concentrating and trying to conjure a picture of Miss Grey in my mind's eye. Though I could see her, a female figure in a plain frock, sitting across the desk from me, my mind stubbornly refused to fill in any of the blanks concerning her height, eye colour or distinctive facial characteristics. I said as much to Holmes, and he nodded.

"The relatives of her victims had the same difficulty. Though they could recall nothing remarkable about the woman who preyed upon their vulnerable aunts and godmothers, the very fact of her lack of distinguishing features was in itself distinctive. She had worked very hard to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, as we discovered when we visited Mrs Peabody. I would wager that when we first entered the parlour you had no idea that we were not alone with the widow."

"That is true, I admit. But I am sure that there are thousands of unremarkable women in London, Holmes, many of them working as paid companions. How can you lay the blame for all of this at the door of just one?"

Holmes smiled slightly. "You think that there may be an organisation, working their way through the wealthy old ladies of the metropolis? An entertaining theory, if an erroneous one." He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest at the inappropriateness of his making light of the situation. "I will tell you how I can lay at least one more count of deception at the feet of Miss Jane Grey, Watson. She has taken care to cover the evidence today, but I am sure you will recall the rash you cursorily examined upon her hand on Saturday. Nettle rash, I believe was the diagnosis."

"As far as I could tell, yes. She said that she had been gardening," I said.

"You saw that garden as well as I – no one had touched it in some considerable time. As a physician, would you agree that upon first glance one rash looks very much like another, whatever the cause of irritation?"

"Well, without a more thorough examination, yes, that is true. Miss Grey's skin was inflamed very much in the manner of contact with stinging nettles, though I did not have a chance to check for the characteristic white blistering."

"If you had, you would have found none, for there are no nettles in Mrs Peabody's garden. Do you remember that Mrs Hanway told us Miss Grey would not touch Barnabus Aloysius because she 'came out in red lumps'? The lady also took great care not to enter the room with us when I examined the cat's basket. However, she had been in the room at some point for there were long white hairs adhering to the hem of her dress. Though Mrs Peabody may be lax about the condition of her garden the floors of her house are immaculate – there is nowhere Miss Grey could have picked up those hairs but in the music room. As for the rash, she had not been touching nettles – the 'red lumps' upon her hand were from contact with the missing animal."

"Good God!" I exclaimed.

"Furthermore, when I checked my files I found that Mrs Bampton also had a favourite pet which her family mentioned the companion as carefully avoiding. When I considered that fact in addition to all the others I concluded Miss Jane Grey and Miss Magdalena Moffett were indeed the same person," Holmes declared. He turned to our 'guest'. "Well, madam? What do you say to that?"

This time Miss Grey said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed firmly upon a point above Holmes's left shoulder, her expression studiously impassive.

I was at a loss to know how to proceed, for though Holmes's theories made sense, we had no more than circumstantial evidence and the lady herself showed no intention of making it easy for us by confessing to her alleged crimes. By the time the clock struck a quarter-past six I was wondering whether I should venture to the kitchen to make some tea. Before I could suggest it, however, there was another ring on the front doorbell. I looked at Holmes, who was watching Miss Grey very much in the manner in which a cat observes a mouse, and sighed, heaving myself from my chair for the second time.

"Are you expecting someone, Mr Holmes?" I heard her ask as I left the room.

There was a slight pause, and then Holmes replied, "Oh, yes. Your accomplice."

When I opened the door a thin, slightly stooped man in his late thirties stood there, hat in hand. His clothes were those of a businessman and he had brushed his pale blond hair across his forehead in an attempt to hide the impressive scar there. The sheaf of legal papers under his arm confirmed that Mr Magnus Clatworthy stood upon my stoop.

"Oh, good afternoon, sir!" he exclaimed, raising his hat and fumbling through his coat pockets for a card, which he presented to me. "Clatworthy is my name - I was under the impression that you required a solicitor."

"That is perfectly true," I lied, holding the door wide to allow him into the hall. "Do come this way, Mr Clatworthy."

He followed me happily to the consulting room, talking all the while, and I could not help but feel surprise that a man so apparently guileless could possibly be a deliberate accessory to fraud and theft. As he stepped through the doorway, however, he stopped short. Holmes had risen from the desk and stood at Miss Grey's shoulder, while she regarded the lawyer with anger, the first real emotion she had shown since being confronted with her actions. In a few short moments her mask had been utterly torn away, revealing the obviously bitter woman beneath.

"Magnus, you _idiot_!"

"Emilia!" Clatworthy cried, nearly dropping his papers. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I could say the same about you!" she hissed. "Have you no perception? I _told_ you that the widow had set a detective on our trail!"

"It seems that you have both been remiss in this instance," said Holmes, bringing forward another chair and pointing to it. "Do sit down, Mr Clatworthy. Evidently the threat of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody to your schemes has made you careless. Had you been so sure of your inheritance, Miss Grey, you would have felt no need to place your real name upon the books of Fry's Agency once more and thus enable me to trace your activities."

"What is he talking about, Emilia? Who is he?" Clatworthy asked, doing as he was told as the expression upon my friend's face would brook no disobedience.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am surprised your uncle did not mention my visit to him this morning when he gave you my note. Yes, Mr Clatworthy, the game is up," Holmes added as the solicitor's long, pale face dawned with recognition. "I am aware of your part in this affair, of how you made the alterations to Mrs Peabody's will upon her request, and then contrived to lose them so that the cat would not benefit. Having ensured that the money would go to the trust established in Miss Grey's real name you decided to be rid of the animal, presumably to stop Mrs Peabody making further changes in its favour. There was also, I would imagine, an element of revenge for the nasty wound its claws inflicted upon you."

Clatworthy blinked in astonishment. He gaped at Miss Grey. "How does he know all this?"

Her hand clenched into fists in her lap, and she answered through clenched teeth. "He knows everything."

"_Everything_? Even about Lady Clooney and Mrs - "

"_Magnus_!" Miss Grey's voice was near to a howl as she uttered his name. "Say nothing more, you fool!"

Holmes stood by the window, folding his arms across his chest. He indicated that I should shut the door and remain in front of it. "Thank you, Mr Clatworthy. I have no idea how the two of you met, or your true relationship, but it is quite clear that you have been preying upon vulnerable widows in tandem for some time. Mrs Peabody was merely the latest. Presumably you had either spent the money you fraudulently accumulated or had become greedy for more when one of the agencies to which you subscribe contacted you regarding a possible new situation. Miss Grey then proceeded to use her formidable skills as an actress to entrench herself in Mrs Peabody's household in preparation to persuading the lady to bequeath her a sum in her will. It is no coincidence that the changes made to the document were recent ones – no doubt you even fabricated the letter purporting to come from Mrs Peabody's nephew in order to reinforce her determination not to leave anything to her relatives."

"You cannot prove that," said Clatworthy, to Miss Grey's evident distress. She slapped him hard on the arm, and he winced. "Mrs Peabody's sister had two children."

"Both of whom perished when the ship aboard which they were travelling from India sank with all hands four years ago," said Holmes, to the solicitor's dismay. "Unfortunately, you reckoned without the lady's devotion to her other companion, the belligerent Barnabus Aloysius. During a conversation upon the subject of legacies, you, Mr Clatworthy, had the misfortune of mentioning Lord Amersham's greyhound. Mrs Peabody decided that her cat should be the only beneficiary of her will and would not be swayed – you were faced with the prospect of your plans falling about your ears and so, in addition to forging the necessary legal amendments, one of you decided to steal Barnabus Aloysius."

He turned to Miss Grey directly. "As for how you came to remove the animal, it was simplicity itself since of course you have charge of the house keys. After locking up for the night you went to the music room with a large basket. The cat of course would allow only Mrs Hanway to touch him and so you resorted to chloroform, picking up that unpleasant rash from the contact as you administered it. I discovered the remains of the cotton wool pad you doused clinging to my trousers when I completed my examination of the floor on Saturday. The animal now rendered unconscious you placed him in the basket, unlocked the back door and stole down the path under cover of darkness to where Mr Clatworthy was waiting. Oh, yes, we have a witness who saw you," he added when she looked surprised. The colour drained from her face. "You returned to the house, fastened the door behind you and went to bed as though nothing untoward had occurred."

"Of course!" I said, "You knew that someone inside the house _must_ have been the culprit, as there were no scratches around the lock to indicate that there had been a break in."

"Bravo, Watson!" Holmes cried, saluting me in delight. "Either someone within the house had passed the key to a confederate, or had perpetrated the theft themselves. When we were told of the small figure leaving the house at night with a basket over their arm, there was no other suspect in my mind: it must be Miss Jane Grey, for Mrs Hanway and the maid Sukey are both of a rather more generous stature. All that remained was for me to determine the motive behind the theft."

"Which you did yesterday?"

He nodded. "I checked my files, recalling the Bampton case of 1889, and found several points of interest. I therefore made my way through the agencies of the West End in search of this unremarkable female who had been companion to so many. There are few unusual characteristics about Miss Grey – a boon in her chosen profession, and one of which she has taken the utmost advantage – but when I stood a little to the side of her I had noticed a distinctive yellow fleck to her left eye, which is usually concealed behind her spectacles. This would have remained invisible to the relatives of Mrs Bampton, who only saw her in passing, but I surmised that when visiting employment agencies Miss Grey might let her disguise drop a little and leave the glasses she did not need at home, as indeed she has done today." I realised that I had not noticed that Miss Grey was not wearing her pince-nez – the fleck in her eye was not immediately obvious, but visible without the lenses, and most unusual. Holmes continued, "I was right, for when I described this feature to the head of Fry's Agency the lady was able to identify her for me, albeit not as Jane Grey, but as a Miss Emilia Courtney, a most capable woman who had been registered with them for some years. According to Miss Fry, Miss Courtney was wishing to leave her current employer and therefore available to accept any offered situation immediately. Presently engaged by a widow in the suburbs, she had much experience, particularly with ladies who had recently lost their husbands."

"And so you knew you had the right person." I shook my head. "Masterful, Holmes."

"Thank you, Watson." Holmes lifted the net curtain to peer through the window again, and tapped the glass three times. Confused, I frowned, opening my mouth to ask him what he was doing. Before I could speak I was cut across by a wordless cry of rage and a shout from Magnus Clatworthy,

"Emilia! Emilia, _don't_!"

Seeing Holmes momentarily apparently off-guard, Miss Grey had taken the opportunity to launch herself at him, fingers twisted into claws and nails directed at his eyes. Though there was a considerable discrepancy in height, she had the advantage of surprise, her anger giving her remarkable strength, and she managed to force him up against the wall behind. He twisted, catching hold of her wrists, but not before she had been able to lash out and scratch the side of his face. I grabbed her from behind, pushing her arms to her sides, but she struggled like a demon, and it was not until Clatworthy recovered from his apparent paralysis and came to take her from me that she calmed down. A cold fury seized her, and as soon as her hands were free she brought one up to connect sharply with his cheek. He backed away, eyes wide like a dog that has just been kicked.

"This is all _your_ fault!" she screamed at him. "If you hadn't mentioned that wretched greyhound - !"

I passed a handkerchief to Holmes, who took is gratefully, pressing it to his scraped skin. "What should we do now? Contact the police?"

"That is already in hand," he replied, and, as if on cue, a hammering started upon my front door. "Do be a good fellow and let them in."

* * *

Ten minutes later, our old friend Inspector Lestrade was escorting both a furious Miss Grey and a downcast Mr Clatworthy from my consulting room in the company of two burly constables.

"Well, I never thought I'd see the Bampton case concluded," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Who would have thought we'd get them over the theft of a Persian cat?"

Holmes smiled slightly, and then winced as I cleaned the scratches on his face with antiseptic. "Who indeed? It is often the light that falls in the strangest places which makes the most beautiful patterns."

The inspector glanced at me and rolled his eyes. I hid my amusement behind my hand. "If you say so, Mr Holmes. We'll be getting along then. Oh, by the way," he added before he turned towards the door, "is the animal recovered?"

Holmes and I looked at each other. With all that had happened, the actual whereabouts of Barnabus Aloysius had completely slipped my mind. My friend directed a piercing gaze at the thief. "Miss Grey?"

Her face, no longer bland and impassive, twisted into a sneer. "Drowned in a bucket. That's all the bloated thing was good for. Whoever will the widow leave her money to now?"

"Come on, let's be having you," said Lestrade, opening the door to allow the lady and her escort to precede him from the room. He touched his hat. "Mr Holmes, Doctor."

When they had gone, I allowed myself to sink into the chair before my desk. We had solved the mystery, but however were we to explain the fate of her beloved cat to Mrs Peabody?

_To be concluded…_


	6. Chapter 6

_Many thanks to those of you who have left reviews! Hope you enjoy the conclusion... :)_

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* * *

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**THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY**

**CHAPTER SIX**

Holmes offered no immediate solution to the dilemma.

He made no move to travel out to Harrow the following morning, instead immersing himself in the agony columns and studiously ignoring Mrs Hudson's frosty treatment. The good lady had apparently been out to do some shopping on Tuesday afternoon and returned to find that the sitting room had been turned upside down, papers littering the floor as though a whirlwind had just blown its way through the house. I was told by the maid that her horrified scream could be heard three doors away.

This was the situation I left on Wednesday to embark upon my rounds, and I was therefore not at all surprised to return a little before four and hear raised voices coming from the floor above. There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, and as I reached the landing I became aware that the voices belonged to Holmes and his cousin. To all intents and purposes they appeared to be continuing their argument from Saturday.

With some trepidation I entered the sitting room, to find Xanthe and Ptolemy seated at the table where our inestimable housekeeper was laying out tea, while their mother stood in the centre of the hearthrug, hands on hips and fire in her eyes, admonishing Holmes. My friend paced up and down the room, exasperation apparent in every line of his body. On the sofa in the centre of all this I perceived a large wicker basket of the kind used to transport animals – as we kept no pets and I had observed none at the Cunninghams', I could not imagine why it should be there.

As Cressida continued to berate an increasingly irritated Holmes about his love of secrecy, the children noticed me standing somewhat bemusedly in the doorway and called me cheerfully to the table. Mrs Hudson, obviously pleased to have young people about the place who did not leave dirty footprints on the carpet, poured me a cup of tea and, with a roll of the eyes towards the bickering cousins, departed, leaving me to supervise the diminutive Cunninghams. I sat down, grateful for the refreshment for it was warm outside and I had been extremely busy the last few hours. In truth I had been hoping for a little peace and quiet upon my return, but it seemed that was out of the question at present.

My chagrin at walking into the middle of a quarrel must have been apparent from my expression, for Ptolemy glanced at me and said, "Don't mind Mama, Doctor Watson. She doesn't really hate cousin Sherlock."

I paused with my teacup halfway to my lips. "What makes you say that?"

"Because she's shouting at him," the lad replied around a slice of Mrs Hudson's sponge cake. "She only shouts at people she likes. Papa gets shouted at all the time." Xanthe nodded in agreement.

"What are they fighting about now?" I could not help asking, for the children were very perceptive, and in addition I did not wish to be the one to interrupt Cressida in full flow. Holmes had by now abandoned any attempt to defend himself and sat hunched in his armchair, an unlit pipe in one hand.

"Mama doesn't like cousin Sherlock's plan to give Mrs Peabody a new Barnabus Aloysius," said Ptolemy. He took another bite of cake. "I don't know why. She did exactly the same thing when Socrates died."

"Socrates?" I had a sudden irrational vision of someone substituting an identical Greek philosopher upon the demise of the original.

Ptolemy tutted. "My _rabbit_," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

There was little I could say in response to that pronouncement, and so the three of us quietly took our tea and waited for the storm to abate. I became so used to the sound of Cressida's voice that when it stopped it took me a few moments to notice. The ticking of the clock in the corner was suddenly very loud.

"Have you finished?" Holmes asked after a few moments of blessed silence.

Cressida took a seat in my armchair on the other side of the hearth and crossed her legs in an elegant, fluid movement. "For now," she said, in a tone which suggested that this was merely a hiatus.

"Then you agree that, given Mrs Peabody's delicate health, this is the best solution for all concerned?"

She sighed and nodded sharply. "Very well. Though you know that if Eliza ever discovers the deception I shall lay the blame firmly at your door?"

"I am quite happy to accept the responsibility." Holmes stood up and came to the table. To my surprise he poured a cup of tea, placed a biscuit in the saucer and carried it across the room to present to Cressida with a flourish. She gave him the closest I had seen to a genuine smile and accepted the cup. Ptolemy glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.

"You know that you are far too clever for your own good, don't you?" Cressida said, flicking one of her own perfectly groomed brows at her cousin.

Holmes saluted her with his pipe as he went to charge it from the Persian slipper. "It has been mentioned."

"Am I to understand," I said, taking the opportunity that this break in hostilities afforded me, "that there is a new cat in that basket?"

"Watson! My dear fellow, I had no idea you were back," Holmes exclaimed in surprise, looking at me as though I had suddenly appeared at the table from thin air.

"So I observed," I replied, throwing one of his favourite remarks back at him.

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. "Ha! Yes, you are perfectly correct. Ptolemy and Xanthe very kindly agreed to accompany me on a little shopping trip this afternoon. They picked out an animal which they assure me is a very worthy replacement for the late Barnabus Aloysius, though this one is of a far sweeter temper than his predecessor."

"Agreed is an understatement," said Cressida dryly. "Their father was almost trampled underfoot when he read out the telegram at breakfast."

"But surely," I said, "would it not be far more honest simply to tell Mrs Peabody the truth about the fate of her cat? The whole thing seems a trifle underhand to me – after all, she is not a child."

"Your scruples do you credit, Watson. My esteemed cousin here also objected due to similar misgivings," Holmes replied. He was about to touch a match to the bowl of his pipe when he spotted Cressida glaring at him and removed it with a sigh, shaking it out and tossing it into the empty fireplace. "However, Mrs Peabody will already have to come to terms with the knowledge that Miss Grey, whom she trusted and welcomed into her home, betrayed that trust in the most appalling manner. To then be confronted with the tale of her beloved pet's death at the hands of the same woman would, quite possibly, be more than an elderly lady with a weak heart could stand. No doubt it is indeed underhand of me, but I believe it would be far kinder to break the news to the widow at a later date."

I frowned. "I had no idea that Mrs Peabody was in poor health."

"Eliza has had a weakness of the heart and diabetes for some years now," Cressida explained. "The latter is aggravated by her love of Mrs Hanway's cooking – they both have a very sweet tooth, which does neither any good. Even Barnabus Aloysius was suffering in that respect, for they would feed him cakes and treats. Even had Miss Grey not ended his life so violently, I have no doubt that sooner or later _his_ heart would have given out under the strain."

"And Mrs Peabody's weak heart was precisely what attracted Miss Grey – or rather Miss Courtney, to give her true name – to the widow's service," added Holmes. "After all, there would be no gain in altering the will of a healthy woman. Though she is a highly unpleasant individual, she did not resort to murder - of human beings, at least."

* * *

It was agreed that Cressida would take the basket and Barnabus Aloysius II back to Harrow with her that afternoon, and Holmes and I would call the following morning so that we might all give Mrs Peabody the news about her duplicitous companion together.

The widow welcomed us into the parlour, calling Sukey to bring refreshments. "I am rather put out," she said, evidently somewhat puzzled by the strange occurrences in her house of late. "Miss Grey took an afternoon off on Tuesday to go into town and has not been back since. No letter or telegram of explanation has been forthcoming, and I must admit that I am becoming rather worried."

"Does she often make trips into London?" Holmes asked, declining the butter biscuits Sukey offered him. I could not help accepting a large slice of fruit cake, despite being conscious of the threat to my waistline, my breakfast having been somewhat rushed. She slipped a couple of biscuits onto my plate as well, telling me with a wink that that Mrs Hanway had made them that morning. As I could contribute little to the conversation, I found myself nibbling at them, despite not having intended to.

"On occasion. She has an aunt in Clerkenwell who is not strong – Jane and her family take it in turns to visit the old lady, I believe. I have never known her to stay away without informing me before. It is most upsetting, especially after the disappearance of Barnabus Aloysius." Mrs Peabody turned hopeful eyes upon my friend. "Please say that you have found him, Mr Holmes! I have no idea how much longer I can live with the uncertainty. Do you know where he is?"

"I can solve the disappearance of both Miss Grey and Barnabus Aloysius," said Holmes. "The two are in fact inextricably linked."

"Linked…? You don't mean that - "

"I am afraid I do. Miss Grey is currently in custody, awaiting an appearance before a magistrate. It was she who took your cat, Mrs Peabody. I knew no one else who could have done."

The colour drained from the widow's face, and she sagged in her chair, her eyes rolling up into her head. My bag being back at Baker Street, Cressida and I were obliged to revive her with burnt feathers and smelling salts before she was able to listen to Holmes's account of the case. At the end I thought that she might faint again, and upon checking her pulse found it to be far too rapid. I murmured to Cressida that I considered a visit from Mrs Peabody's own physician to be beneficial, and she nodded, assuring me that she would see to it that afternoon.

"I cannot believe it," Mrs Peabody said, shaking her head and plucking at the ribbon holding her lorgnette with nervous fingers. "She was always so solicitous, if a trifle aloof. I could not fault her service. It is true that she was never fond of Barnabus Aloysius, but I put that down to the unpleasant rash she sustained when I once asked her to put him back in his basket for me. He never took to her, but then he is very nervous around strangers. That was why he attacked Mr Clatworthy. I suppose they decided to steal him because they both disliked him so. And to think that I employed her because she told me how fond she was of animals."

"The cat was of secondary importance to them," said Holmes a trifle impatiently. "Their main objective was always the acquisition of your money, and they set about it with considerable ingenuity."

"Oh, why must it always come down to money?" the widow lamented. "Those children of my sister's were the same, trying to get their hands on my money. I will admit that I was convinced it was they who had stolen Barnabus Aloysius, in order to try and force me to change my will in their favour."

"They are dead, Eliza," said Cressida. "Sherlock discovered that they perished en route from India some years ago."

Mrs Peabody was hardly listening, apparently uninterested in the fate of her niece and nephew. She sank her head on one hand, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve with the other. As she dabbed at eyes which, as far as I could see, were not exactly full of tears, she said, "What am I to do now? A woman alone, her companions gone?"

"I believe we may be able to help you with that," Holmes announced. After a moment she raised her head and blinked at him. He rose and went to the door, opening it to reveal Xanthe standing there with a large ball of white fluff in her arms. I had observed Holmes and Cressida talking quietly together before leaving the house, and assumed that between them they had arranged for the children to bring the cat over, for Ptolemy followed behind with the basket. I confess that I could not tell one Persian cat from another and neither, it would appear, could Mrs Peabody, for she sat up in her chair, joy radiating from her fleshy face as the children carried the animal towards her. "Of course," Holmes added as Xanthe surrendered Barnabus Aloysius II to his new mistress, "you will observe that his recent ordeal has had an effect upon him. He is a little less…belligerent than he was."

"He is glad to be home," Mrs Peabody said, as the cat made itself comfortable on her lap after some half-hearted struggling. "One can see that immediately. Oh, and he has lost so much weight! Was that nasty woman not feeding you, my darling? We will have to get Sukey to bring you some treats, won't we?"

"You must also summon Mr Montague Clatworthy at the first opportunity to amend your will," Holmes continued, though she was paying him no attention by now, her eyes only for her feline friend. She murmured to it as one would to a baby. "If you do not, Miss Grey will still be able to profit from her schemes."

"Did you hear that, Eliza? You must ask the solicitor to call," said Cressida loudly. "It is vitally important."

Mrs Peabody glanced up in annoyance. "Yes, yes, of course," she replied, and immediately resumed her cooing over the cat. It yawned widely and proceeded to settle down to sleep, oblivious to anything around it. She did not look up again.

Holmes and I took that as our cue to leave. My friend obtained an absent-minded thank you from the widow, but nothing more, much to his annoyance. He did not always expect payment for his services, but gratitude for a job well done was no more than his due. It was quite clear where Mrs Peabody's priorities lay, and I found myself thinking that she must have been an easy target for Miss Grey. Had she not had the luck to count a member of the Holmes family as her friend, her fortune would have gone the way of those other unfortunate widows, into the hands of a grasping and unscrupulous woman.

Cressida followed us into the hall.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said curtly. "I could not have made sense of this mess alone. If you will send me your bill, I will ensure that Eliza pays it. She is not in a receptive frame of mind at present, as you can see."

Holmes nodded. "I would in turn be grateful if you could give her a message from me."

"Of course. What is it?"

"It is my suggestion that she uses some of the money she intends to hold in trust for that animal to employ a gardener, an odd-job man and a financial advisor, if she wishes to avoid this sort of thing happening again. And if she intends to seek a new companion, references and testimonies are of far more use than a professed affection for the animal kingdom!"

Cressida's lips twitched, and she inclined her fair head. "Very well. Though I will naturally do so with more tact."

"That, my dear cousin, goes without saying." Sukey had brought our hats, and Holmes turned towards the door. "We will bid you good day. It has been…interesting to see you again, Cressida."

"And infuriating too, don't deny it. The feeling is mutual." She laughed for the first time, a loud, unexpected noise rather like a donkey braying. I am ashamed to say that I jumped, though thankfully she did not notice. "It is just as well we defied Aunt Sophronia all those years ago, is it not?"

The door to the parlour opened behind us at that juncture, no doubt to Holmes's relief, and Ptolemy came running out. He caught hold of Holmes's sleeve, tugging at it.

"You're not going yet, are you, cousin Sherlock? I wanted to show you my telescope! Papa told me the names of all the constellations, and I know I saw Orion's belt last night!"

I tried not to smile at that, for Holmes and I had argued the importance of astronomy in the early days of our friendship. He still maintained that it mattered little to him whether the earth revolved around the sun or moon. Telescopes were a useful tool for observation at a distance, nothing more.

"Ptolemy, cousin Sherlock has lots of work to do in London," said Cressida sternly.

"Another time, perhaps," Holmes replied with a brief smile at the lad, which was returned.

His cousin looked askance at him. "Does that mean you will come back?"

He put on his hat, tapping the crown. "If _invited_ rather than summoned, possibly," he said, and with a pat on the shoulder for Ptolemy and a nod to Cressida he strode off into the sunlight outside. I bade my farewells to them both, receiving a nod of approval from Mrs Cunningham, and followed, catching up with Holmes at the garden gate.

"Just think, old man," I said mischievously as we made our way up the street towards the station, "that young lad could have been yours."

"I think not, Watson," came the reply, laced with a touch of amusement. "There are too many of his father's amiable qualities in him. Cressida and I are distant cousins to be sure, but could you imagine the result of two strains of Holmes blood mixed together?"

"In truth I cannot, though no doubt it would be worth observing."

He threw his head back and laughed. "It would indeed! It is, however, one experiment in which I will never indulge."

"Thank goodness," I replied, with exaggerated relief.

"Amen to that, friend Watson. Now," Holmes said, checking his watch, "it is a little after eleven, and as Mycroft is expecting us at the foreign office at three, I suggest we take the quarter-to train back to town."

"This business with Siam?" I enquired, recalling the elder Holmes's price for assisting his brother.

"Unfortunately, yes. However, I think we may be permitted to stop for a leisurely lunch on our way. What do you think?"

I nodded, and he smiled broadly. "Excellent idea, Holmes," I said, but added, the cake and biscuits still heavy in my stomach, "Though for goodness's sake, please let's avoid dessert!"

FIN


End file.
